Under the Mistletoe
by GoldenVine
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a man who struggles with his stiff, upper-class lifestyle. He soon discovers that his only love is not science, but will he find a way to have his Christmas miracle? Georgian era with lots of fluff because why not?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N - Tis' the season for Sherlolly FALALALALALALALALALA Here's a wee present for everybody in the Sherlolly ship! You all do such wonderful stories, graphics, drawings etc so I thought I'd type up a little story that has been in my head for a while. It is set in the Georgian era but I'm not great on history, saying that there shouldn't be any glaring historical mistakes since I did do my research! It's possibly a 3/4 parter and should be out within the week! Anyway I'm rambling, have a wonderful holiday! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer - I don't own it. I'm just borrowing it for my own amusement.**

Sherlock Holmes was not one for celebrating holidays, particularly Christmas. Its extravagance was irritating and he did not care for it one bit. The pagan holiday did nothing to cheer his spirits in fact it did the complete opposite. It managed to quell any cheerful mood he might manage to muster with its absolutely ridiculous decorations and quite frankly obnoxious carols. During the festive period he would retire to his quarters for days at a time only coming out to use the lavatory and pinch a couple of apples when his stomach demanded sustenance. His mother would pass it off as one of his 'oddities' and carry on sipping wine and laughing with all those atrocious diplomats and their wives.

That was another thing that irked him – upper class social gatherings. His mother, being considerate as always, had invited many eligible (read approved) young women to the Holmes residence for their annual Christmas ball at the end of the week. He did not know how much more he could take of the frivolities of the upper classes. The women always flapping fans at each other, cooing over pillars and statues, and adding an inch of height to their hair if it was deemed fashionable. No, he did not care for the upper classes at all.

He only really cared for one thing and that was science. The furthering of his scientific knowledge was his sole reason for living. Giant tomes on anatomy, chemicals and such like sat open on his writing desk and experiments of varying success littered his quarters making it a hazard for anyone who entered. His mother, and even to an extent his brother, looked down on his unusual hobby ("Really Sherlock, poking around dead animals will not attract a wife.") It was ungentlemanly for him to spend so much time shut up and so little time socialising with the bourgeoisie. He was aware that people talked of him, well, gossiped was perhaps a better word. The handsome man who kept himself to himself and had an uncanny ability to read people. They whispered about his talent as if it was something to be feared. He did not care what they said about him. People talked, in fact, they rarely did anything else which was why it was so taxing to socialise with them. Idiots who made that sod Anderson from his schooling days look like a genius.

However, to say that science was his only love would be a lie. His eye had in fact been taken by a fancy which was so far removed from any other subject the young Holmes took an interest in that he had not whispered a word of it to anyone. It was in fact a girl. And not just any girl - a plain, mousy servant girl who was ignored by almost everyone and took an unusual interest in anatomy. How did he know this? He had caught her reading one of his many papers about the human body whilst she was involved in the semi-annual cleaning of his quarters. Since then he had taken it upon himself to find out all he could about her. A servant girl who could read was fascinating enough but one that enjoyed science was a mystery that would not go unsolved. He started with the kitchen staff. They were well known for their gossipy nature and did not have to be bribed to divulge what they knew.

_"Oh terrible story. She was left on her own when her parents died. I heard they were rich but her father had some gamblin' debts that were collected upon his untimely death, y'know? So she didn't have anywhere to go an' no money to get anywhere in this world. Your father took her in and gave her work as a favour to her family. I think he had done business with them before but I ain't sure. Anyway, she doesn't talk much, barely eats and I only see her happy when she's readin'."_

_"Yes, but what is her name?" Sherlock demanded._

_"Margaret Hooper but she likes to be called Molly."_

Since then _Molly_ had sparked his interest on more than one occasion. He often saw her gazing out of the window at the happenings on the street below, or dusting haphazardly when her mind was elsewhere. Any other household would have reprimanded her for her lack of care and attention but he found it endearing. The way she would bite her lip in deep thought, pushing the strands of her wavy brown hair out of her eyes. He often caught himself staring at her when she couldn't see him. He found himself contemplating how he could orchestrate a meeting between them without anyone finding out. After all, a young upper-class bachelor taking an interest in a servant girl was the type of scandal that got tails wagging and he was certain that Margaret Hooper was not one of Mummy's approved matches.

He needn't have planned anything however as fate seemed to be on his side. She had been rushing from room to room putting up decorative flowers and leaves for the Christmas ball when she had found herself tripping over a table leg and hurtling towards the ground. She was stopped by two very solid arms wrapping themselves around her waist just seconds before her nose met the floor. She hazarded a glance up at the face of her saviour and blushed furiously when she met the icy gaze of the younger Holmes her hands moving to wrap around her waist where his had been just a minute ago.

"Oh, I'm so sorry sir. It was entirely my fault" she curtsied quickly and hurried to make her way out of the room.

"No wait!" Sherlock shouted not wanting to waste the opportunity to talk to her.

Molly stopped and turned to face him slowly a nervous smile on her features.

Sherlock found he could not speak. There was a myriad of things he wanted to tell her, wanted to do to her, but he could not do any of them. He couldn't even deduce her. God, what was happening to him? He was one of those fools in love who do silly things to secure their woman. Oh how cruel this world was, turning him into an idiot when he needed to be exactly the opposite. Sherlock was snapped out of his stupor by a quiet voice, "Was there something you wanted sir?"

Sherlock looked at her for a second, "No nothing." He turned sharply and all but stormed out of the room. Wonderful Sherlock now you've really ruined it. He berated himself all the way to his room where he would torture his violin until his brother took it away forcibly.

Molly looked at the space where Sherlock had been standing just a minute ago. She let out a ragged breath and attempted to slow her hammering heart. The younger Holmes was most definitely as handsome as the staff said and Molly feared that her heart would never be hers again.

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	2. Chapter 2

**A/N - Thank you to SammyKatz, IA, Empress of Verace, Renaissancebooklover108, RegiColferK, Kathmak, Mycroft'sGirl and the two Guests that left reviews! They were all very much appreciated as were all the follows/favourites! To the guest who pointed out the minute thing, I did just mean it as a turn of phrase but perhaps you're right. I'll keep it in mind for next time. Anyway enjoy this chapter because the next one is angsty! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer - Nope still don't own it.**

For the next two days Sherlock paced his room. Then, when he couldn't bear pacing his room any longer, he paced the corridors. Then, when the corridors bored him, he paced the garden and finally, when it started to rain, he wallowed in the kitchen, taking to irritating the cook when he couldn't find a solution to his little problem. But what exactly was his problem? Sherlock scoffed and once more tossed the little tangerine into the air, catching it deftly in his hand. His problem was Molly Hooper.

She intrigued him, yes, but she was just a servant girl. There were plenty of others who had made their attention well-known. Others who were prettier, wealthier and much more socially acceptable than a lowly servant girl yet he didn't want any of them. He found them insipid with their faux displays of intelligence and obnoxious little tinkering laughs that were clearly put on. No, he didn't want one of them, he wanted Molly Hooper and Molly Hooper he would have. He just had to approach her the right way. He would not admit to loving her, not yet, but there was a certain admiration bordering on liking for her. She crept into his day dreams and when he tried to banish her to the depths of his mind palace she would rise up and capture him in his dreams. It was something that the young Holmes was not used to and he had suspicions that he would never get used to it. The mousy woman with long, silken hair had captured his mind and might even have captured his heart.

Sherlock was too enraptured in his thoughts to hear the near silent shuffling of the petite woman's feet as she entered the kitchen with her arms full of wreaths.

"Oh sorry to disturb you Master Holmes" Molly mumbled as she quickly curtsied to the bewildered looking Sherlock.

"Uhm yes..it's fine. I was just thinking" he stammered placing the small tangerine he was still fiddling with on the table.

"What were you thinking about?" Molly asked but was quick to berate herself for speaking out of turn, "I'm sorry. Forgive me, I'm too curious for my own good. Or at least that's what everybody says, s-sorry." Molly skirted around Sherlock gathering the wreaths and beginning to weave smooth red ribbons into the decorative circles.

"It's perfectly ok Margaret. I was just thinking about society" he lied easily.

"If I may be permitted to ask, "Sherlock nodded encouragingly, "Why were you thinking about society?"

"It's so awfully dull."

Molly giggled at his eccentricity whilst gathering more ribbon into her hands. Sherlock observed the look of concentration on her face as she deftly knotted the ribbon into a bow. Her tinkering laugh, Sherlock thought, was one he could most certainly get used to.

"What do you think of society Ms Hooper?"

"What do you mean?" Molly asked, glancing up at him through her dark lashes.

"Traditions and all that? Isn't it tedious? So predictable and boring."

"I suppose it is a bit stuffy" she agreed enjoying the unusual conversation. It wasn't often that a member of the upper classes even bothered to learn your name but here was Sherlock Holmes, one of the most wanted bachelors in England, actually talking to her. If Molly were to give into her whimsical girlish side she would most certainly jump about the kitchen like a frog on hot coals.

"It's dreadful" Sherlock droned leaning his head back on the chair he was sitting on. He would not admit that it was dreadful because of his intentions towards her and the difficulty that their social standings respective to each other were causing him. It was rather spoiling his plans. Of course he didn't care what the toffs said about him but surely Molly would? She had a clean reputation so far and spoiling it with him would surely ruin any future she might have at the Holmes manor. His brother and mother would certainly not stand for that kind of scandal within their court. If he really wanted anything to happen between himself and Miss Hooper they would have to run away together, but where? And would she even want to come?

"I suppose that explains it then" she said meekly.

"Explains what?"

Molly looked up at Sherlock's impassive face sheepishly, "Well, you look very unhappy when you think no-one can see you. I don't think you like being part of the aristocracy."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at her deduction, "You can see me…"

"I don't count" she said with a surety that made Sherlock's heart ache. She really believed she was nothing to anyone. He looked down at the lonely tangerine in his hands feeling the need to look anywhere but at Molly's searching eyes.

"I'm sorry I'll just go and fetch the, uhm, bread. Yes bread. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Not just now" he muttered absentmindedly.

Molly nodded and practically ran out of the room, she could almost laugh at the strange role reversal from their first meeting. She stopped however, one hand on the door handle, when a deep voice called out, "There is one thing you could do."

"Yes sir?"

"Call me Sherlock" he said back still facing Molly.

"I'm sorry I-I can't. It's not proper" Molly stumbled her face turning an alarming shade of red. It was too intimate people would talk. Even the most loyal servants did not call their masters by their first name.

"I insist" he said in a tone that vanquished any arguments.

Molly smiled at the back of his head, "Then you must call me Molly, S-Sherlock." Smiling widely Molly made her way out of the kitchen his name rolling nicely from her tongue.

Sherlock smirked as he heard the door click shut. It was a start at least. Now, he just had to figure out his plan. He was fairly certain that Molly held some affection towards him. The dilated pupils, blushing and sly staring were all indicators of that but he would have to make sure before he assayed to steal her from her position.

"Master 'olmes? Are you still 'ere?" the cook exclaimed hurriedly rounding on the young Holmes who was currently cluttering up her well-ordered kitchen. She'd just come back from the markets and had ran into that little slight of a thing Molly Hooper on her way in. Poor girl had been blushing furiously, the cook only hoped that whatever Sherlock had said wasn't too harsh. Molly was an innocent little girl and the longer she stayed that way the better, in her opinion.

"Obviously" he scoffed.

"Well, you need to get movin'. Sorry, but your mother is havin' the tailor come round to get your Christmas tailcoat ready and you'd best get a move on or she won't be best pleased."

Sherlock groaned and made to stand when a little sprig caught his attention. He picked up the little branch and turned it in his hand, "This isn't for putting on wreaths. It's too small and the little berries are surely poisonous."

"Oh you are clever! No, they're not for the wreaths. It's mistletoe."

"Mistletoe?"

"Oh them cheeky boys hang it above doors in the servants quarters an' if you catch a girl under it they 'ave to give you a kiss."

Sherlock looked to the branch and then into the distance, "Interesting."

The cook looked at Sherlock's changing expression worriedly. If she was not mistaken, and she rarely was, she'd just given the youngest Holmes an idea and that was a very dangerous thing indeed.

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	3. Chapter 3

**A/N - I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas, and if you don't celebrate it I hope you had a lovely day and enjoyed all the telly! A big thank you to all who read this especially to Zora Arian, Empress of Verace, coloradoandcolorado1, Renaissancebooklover108, Freewaygirl and the guest for all their lovely reviews and to all followers/favouriters. This one is angsty but please hang in their for a fountain of fluff is ahead of us. Here I imagine Sherlock is about 24, Molly 19/20. Just to give you an idea of the ages. Anyway, enjoy! **

**Disclaimer -Not mine.**

The Ballroom of the Holmes family manor was decorated exquisitely. Tasteful strings of green vines and golden ribbons spiralled down the already opulent marble columns, hints of festive red shimmered from every corner and the grand staircase held two resplendent trees on the end of its platform. The guests all cooed and admired Lady Holmes gorgeous decorations, wishing her good tidings but secretly envying the lifestyle she appeared to have. The Lady herself was moving in important circles greeting this noble and sharing a humorous anecdote with the next. She prided herself in her socialite status; she only wished that her younger son shared her talent. She knew how much gatherings like this grated on his nerves but it was only once a year and Lady Viola Holmes did not think that once a year was too much to ask.

"Sherlock" she trilled flouncing over to her youngest son.

"Yes mother" Sherlock bit out, pulling at his stiff collar in an attempt to gain some breathing room.

"For goodness sake boy stop pulling at yourself" his mother chided placing her wine down in favour of fussing with his necktie.

"Really mother there is no need for that." Sherlock batted away his mother's hands and returned to scowling at the scene before him.

Men and women twirled around the dance floor staring into one another's eyes adoringly as a string quartet played softly from the band corner. The Christmas cheer was certainly spreading, even the servants were smiling gaily as they passed around drinks and canapés. He scanned through the crowds looking for Molly but he hadn't seen her all night. He had instead noticed the lingering stares of appreciation that his too tight trousers and newly tailored jacket were attracting, from both women and men. He had failed, however, to attract the sight of the one person he really wanted to. He would need to find her or his plan would be totally wasted and the key to his plan was timing, it really wouldn't work on any other night.

"Who are you looking for Sherlock?" Lady Holmes asked curiously.

Sherlock coughed and returned his gaze back to his expectant mother, "No-one."

"You cannot fool me Sherlock Vernet Holmes. You were looking for someone. Tell me who it was?"

"It was no-one mummy" Sherlock said perhaps a little louder than he should have.

"Oh who's a grumpy boy this evening?" crooned a delicate voice from behind him.

"Ah Miss Adler," Viola grinned appraising the newcomer graciously, "Lovely to see you. How is your father?"

"Oh he's not doing too well I'm afraid" Miss Adler commented sadly an exaggerated sigh punctuating the sentence.

"Oh that is a shame. Are you enjoying the party?"

"I am, however I'd enjoy it even better if I had someone to dance with" she said suggestively.

Viola lit up in an instant gazing at her youngest child who, if it were possible, was scowling even more so than before. "Have I introduced you to my youngest son, this is Sherlock! Sherlock this is Miss Irene Adler."

"Oh I know all about him" Miss Adler said sending a lascivious look in his direction.

"Do you?" Sherlock replied sharply.

"Of course" she all but purred gazing appreciatively at his attire.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and fought the urge to spout his deductions at this lecherous woman. Miss Adler was not the type of women he wanted to attract in fact she was the opposite of the woman he wanted to charm. She already had three serious affairs on the go judging by the mismatch of expensive jewels, each given by a separate lover but too expensive to throw away. She was vain, spent too much time perfecting the curl of her hair and the swish of her hips. Her clothing was of the highest fashion, an alarming shade of red, a colour associated with passion and lust, and most befitting for her profession. She was a woman for hire, spending the evening with the highest bidder whilst her father lies on his deathbed. The most horrendous example of womankind and not one he wanted to be in the company of any longer.

"If you'll excuse me there are other guests I'd rather talk to." Sherlock nodded his head in her direction and started to turn on his heel.

"Oh I was rather hoping you'd ask me to dance" she giggled perfecting an innocent smile.

"Of course he'll dance! My Sherlock is an excellent dancer. Go on dear" his mother encouraged giving him a not so delicate shove onto the dance floor.

Sherlock suddenly found himself on the ballroom floor with Miss Adler's hands wrapped firmly around his biceps. For his part he held her loosely and quite literally kept her at arm's length.

"For a skinny man you certainly have a lot of muscle. I'd be interested to see what you look like under that coat Mr Holmes" she whispered seductively as the music began to play.

Sherlock's ears tinged red at her forward attitude – he was definitely not used to this kind of attention. "Unfortunately I have no interest in you what so ever" he retorted throwing a glance around the ball room deducing this affair and that marriage breakdown but still not spying who he wanted to.

"Oh come on, everyone has an interest in me."

"You'll find I'm not like most people Miss Adler" he responded looking off into the distance in a show of overstated disinterest. He found that by spinning around on the dance floor he could gain a better look at the entire room although his search for brown hair and doe eyes was still not fruitful. He had hoped he wouldn't see her this time around as he was certain that what was a simple dance between strangers positively did not look like that to the outsider.

"No you're not are you? That's what I find so appealing" she said, her voice laced with lust.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to remember just how long these new-fangled waltzes went on.

"What are you looking for? Or _who _are you looking for_?_"

Sherlock's eyes snapped down to meet Irene's, "Nothing and no-one."

"Well you certainly weren't looking at me and that's just rude Mr Holmes."

"If I wanted to look at women like you I would look in alleyways and street corners at night" Sherlock spat growing rapidly more annoyed by the woman in front of him, who was at this moment delaying his plan for gaining the woman he truly wanted. He had just spotted Molly a little way away, thankfully not looking at the couples on the dance floor, but instead being reprimanded by Mr Briggs, the head butler. He wondered absently what she'd done before he spotted the small wine stain on her shoe and the tremble of her left hand as it held an empty tray. Obviously spilt one – no two – glasses of wine. Probably while she was admiring the decorations as she was prone to do.

"Well they said you were cold" the woman chuckled seeming to be turned on more by his disinterest than anything else.

"I am and I consider myself married to my work so there is absolutely no need to try and change that. I'm. Not. Interested." Ms Adler looked up at Sherlock's dark scowl as the song ended. She curtsied and he bowed, as was expected of them, and then he ran off without another word. Miss Irene Adler turned around to be faced with the questioning looks of various nobles' wives and daughters, all of whom had wanted to dance with Sherlock the whole night but had been put off by his solemn air. Irene smiled cattily and shrugged slightly, "Well he is a strange one." She was soon enveloped in a circle of curious women asking her about him. What was his dancing like? Is he available? Did you touch his hair? She smiled and answered where appropriate enjoying the popularity that one dance with Sherlock Holmes brought her. She would be sure to do more with him in the future.

Mr Briggs dismissed Molly and she was soon swiftly making her way towards the kitchens. Unbeknownst to her, Sherlock was making his way towards the kitchen also - hurriedly pursuing the little woman who was surprisingly quick on her feet.

Molly was busy dumping one lot of wine tumblers and filling up the next annoyed that she had been clumsy enough to warrant a telling off. She was only keeping an eye out for Sherlock and really that Lord whatever his name was walked into her, the drunken fool! She was mumbling angrily to herself when Sherlock came rushing into the kitchen.

"Oh Master Holmes," she smiled cheerily her mood instantly lifting, "Was there something you needed?"

"Yes" he said simply advancing forward and snatching a small sprig from the sideboard. This was it – he was just going to do it.

"What is it? What do you need?"

"You." Sherlock stepped forward so that he was towering over Molly's petite frame. Holding the sprig of mistletoe aloft, he grinned as he leant forward and hesitantly pressed his lips against hers.

Molly's lips were as soft and supple as he had imagined them to be, moulding to his like they were made for that exact purpose. He brought his hand up to cup the side of her face as he moved slightly back looking into her eyes.

"Was that ok?" he asked breathlessly. The only answer he got was another kiss being placed on his lips, then another, and another. Each one more fervent and confident than the last. He had just dropped the sprig of mistletoe in favour of undoing Molly's hair from its tight bun when a sharp clearing of someone's throat swiftly ended the kiss.

"Well, well, well, look what we have here…"

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	4. Chapter 4

**A/N - Well, hello again! Thank you to Potix, MizJoely, SammyKatz (and the cat who helped), Freewaygirl, Renaissancebooklover108, IA, elorawolf, coloradoandcolorado1, RegiColferK, Heather2910 and Kathmak, also to all who follow/favourite as you all put a smile on my face! Now, serious bit WARNING for slight mention of domestic abuse so if that disturbs you please skip that bit. It is only a paragraph and isn't what I would consider explicit but please consider yourself warned. Other than that enjoy the penultimate chapter!**

**Disclaimer - *checks things that she owns* Nope still not mine. **

"Well, well, well, look what we have here…"

"Mycroft" Sherlock groaned still holding onto Molly's face tightly.

"Having it off with the servants are we?" Mycroft badgered making his way slowly towards his little brother, "I had hoped that you were just feeling peckish."

Molly quickly removed herself from Sherlock and stood off to the side, head bowed with a crimson blush creeping its way to her cheeks. She silently skulked backwards doing what she did best – being invisible.

"Don't Mycroft" Sherlock spat. He looked towards Molly as she practically melted into the wall. He knew what was coming next and it could only end horribly. His brother, ever one for upholding tradition and exerting his power, would likely send Molly away in the interest of keeping gossip at bay. When their father had passed over Mycroft became the head of the household as he was in line to receive the title of 'lord' which he craved ever so much. The brothers, however, were polar opposites. Where Mycroft cared for social convention and people's opinions, Sherlock couldn't be less bothered. This was the root of the brother's rift as Mycroft saw it. And as father had passed the title onto him it was his job to keep Sherlock in line – always acting in his brother's best interests of course.

"Don't what brother dear? Tell Mummy?"

Sherlock turned to face his traitorous elder brother, "Mycroft…" he breathed, preparing for the inevitable battle.

"She's a servant girl Sherlock."

"I know that."

"Do you know what that would do to our family?" Mycroft thundered as he advanced towards his brother.

"I am aware, yes."

"Then you see why it cannot happen."

"No I do not."

"Oh stop being obnoxious Sherlock" Mycroft chastised.

"I'm not being obnoxious Mycroft, I'm being…"

"Impulsive" Mycroft cut him off with a silencing glare.

Sherlock stared at his elder brother vehemently wishing that he'd never walked in and interrupted him when his plan was going so superbly well. Now Molly would never want to leave with him. He would be forced to take drastic measures or else lose the single most interesting thing to happen in his life thus far.

"Caring is not an advantage brother."

"So you've told me" he mumbled sarcastically.

"All lives end and all hearts are broken."

Sherlock looked down at his freshly polished boots not deigning his brother with a response. The arrogant git would always have the last word so what was the point in wasting his breath. Meanwhile Molly was shrinking away faster and faster. The brothers' argument bringing to mind the many drunken rages of her father. The nights when her father had not won enough and drank far too much. The nights when he'd shout in fury and ornaments would get smashed, doors would slam and her mother would shriek. In the morning little Molly Hooper, who was too young at the time to fully understand, would wonder how her mum was so clumsy as to gain bruises even in her sleep. It was why her father's death was a gift rather than a curse. Her mother no longer lived in fear of her father's hand. However when Molly's loving mother joined her husband just a few weeks later her life was shattered. Everything around her seemed to crumble and she was soon left destitute on a street corner waiting for death whenever or however it chose to come.

That was when Lady Holmes had stepped in and brought her in from the streets giving her lodgings and work. It wasn't the high life but it wasn't bad either. She owed a lot to the Holmes and now she had ruined it all. Well, to be precise _he _had ruined it all with his touch and his kisses. She was perfectly content to admire him from afar but he had been there and giving her so much and, god help her, she had taken it because despite what she tried to tell herself she loved Sherlock Holmes and would throw away a thousand jobs to have him look at her the way he had just now. He was unlike any man she had ever met or ever would meet. His violin playing, his interest in the sciences, even his ability to deduce what you had for breakfast from the smudge of butter on your sleeve – she loved everything but it had all been ruined. It wouldn't culminate in anything, Molly was smart enough to know that, so now there was nothing to do except…run.

"What are you going to do?" Sherlock asked shaping his words carefully.

"I won't tell anyone bar mother of course," Mycroft smirked, "But obviously Miss Hooper will have to go."

Molly looked up to Mycroft who was staring at her coldly. The elder Holmes had always frightened her, many called him the Ice Man and she could certainly see why. His face bereft of any emotion told her that there was no leeway in his decision.

Sherlock moved to argue but before he even opened his mouth a flash of brown hair whipped past him as Molly flew out of the kitchen. Her thundering footsteps could be heard going up the stairs yet Sherlock barely heard anything over the rush of his own blood.

"Do you see what you've done now?" he roared moving to follow Molly out of the room.

"It's for your own good Sherlock" Mycroft hollered after his brother.

"No," Sherlock shouted, "It's for your own good and the family's reputation. Nothing you've ever done has been for my good." Sherlock slammed the door as a final gesture of defiance before making his way up to the servant's quarters where Molly would most certainly be.

Molly was stuffing her meagre belongings into a battered suitcase when things started to be roughly pulled back out.

"What are you doing?" she bit out as she dragged things back into her suitcase and slammed it shut triumphantly.

"You can't leave" Sherlock said running a hand through his slicked back hair effectively dislodging a few curls.

"I have to – you heard your brother" Molly snivelled.

"Ignore my brother everyone else does."

Molly took Sherlock's advice in ignoring but instead ignoring him and not his brother. She moved around the small room taking off her waiting apron and putting on her coarse woollen jacket.

"Molly…" Sherlock growled putting himself between her and the door.

"I need to go" Molly said plainly trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"Molly, I…can't let you go."

"I have to, S-Sherlock. Your mother probably knows by now and she will not have me in her house. It's not done. It's not proper" she argued.

"I don't care if it's not done. You are not leaving." Sherlock snared adamantly. He knew what she was saying was true but there had to be some other way? The one girl he had ever felt _something _for and she was about to walk out of his life forever – quite literally.

"Move out of the way, please." Molly attempted to go around the immovable object in front of her but found two very firm hands being placed on her shoulders.

"Molly I feel…_something_ for you. Something that I certainly haven't experienced before and you obviously feel that _something_ towards me, that much is obvious in the way you just acted. It would be in our mutual interest if you didn't leave."

Molly sniffed and looked up at Sherlock, here doe eyes shining with unshed tears, "What is the _something_ that you feel?"

"It's…it's," Sherlock stumbled over his words. He did not care for emotions such as these but surely she could see that – surely she could deduce it. He looked down at her trying to communicate everything he could not say with a single look.

"I'm sorry Sherlock" Molly whispered as she pecked him on the cheek. She had just enough time to register the look of confusion on Sherlock's face before she used his distraction to slip under his arm and run towards the servant's exit. It was only when she got onto the snowy street that she realised she had no idea where she was going or what she was going to do and she knew, with surety, that she'd just thrown away her one chance of love.

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	5. Chapter 5

**A/N - Alas, this story 'tis over. It's a sad occasion - I loved writing again. But it's for the best just now as real life must take over for a while. Thanks to Potix, SammyKatz, flipperthepenguin4, Kathmak, patemalah21, Freewaygirl, RegiColferK, Empress of Verace, thestarlitrose, CreamoCrop, Rosa Calletti, Renaissancebooklover108, FrostyDream, Mycroft'sLady and all who followed/favourite this story. It really means a lot that people are enjoying this story and you guys make me smile whenever I get a notification of your kindness! Well, enjoy this chapter and until next time!**

**Disclaimer - I don't own it.**

Over the next five years the winter's in London grew worse and worse paralleling Sherlock's increasing disdain towards the festive season. From his lodgings in Baker Street he watched as tiny snowflakes spiralled down to join the already thick blanket that covered the ground making it a nuisance to walk over. He huffed out a puff of air causing the window to mist up in front of him and placed his well-used violin back into its case. The instrument was well loved and he noted that a new 'A' string would have to be put on order soon.

Sherlock made his way over to his usual armchair, slumping down into it and propping his feet onto the oak table in front of him – a manoeuvre he was always told off for. He placed his hands under his chin perfecting his "thinking" position although this time he was not thinking but watching, hypnotised by the raging flames consuming the wood in the fireplace. The old house he had rented creaked something awful, playing out its knackered symphony to him while he waited. That's all he ever seemed to do nowadays – wait. Wait until the next most exciting case or experiment came along. Anything to take his mind elsewhere.

He did hate being alone. He would often speak his deductions aloud to no-one in particular or ask for an opinion on a thesis he was working on but he was, more often than not, met with silence. Especially when relatives come calling and insist that the family visit for Christmas. Dull, boring, pointless. He did not concern himself with keeping in touch with a family that very nearly ruined his life. He didn't need them anyway, not anymore.

He had done well for himself since moving to London, even going as far as to get a job. He was the world's only consulting detective – a job title he had penned himself – which meant that he consulted with the police when they were in over their head, which was often, solving their cases for a small fee. He had also found himself a companion in Dr John Watson, a veteran army doctor, who had missed the thrill of action and jumped at the chance to re-live past glories. Shortly after meeting Sherlock, John had met Mary and that was the end of his single life but not the end of his consulting career. It turned out that Mrs Watson nee Morstan was very fond of introducing her husband as a police consultant and actively encouraged his chosen hobby.

However, Sherlock still found himself sitting in Baker Street alone this Christmas Eve as John looked after his heavily pregnant wife. He was growing restless in the quiet room taking to tapping out an unsteady rhythm with his fingertips. They would be here any minute now but he simply couldn't wait any longer. He leapt out of his chair and started to pace running his hand through his hair in exasperation. Once he had paced the length of the living room twice he looked into the mirror and caught sight of his dishevelled appearance. He groaned aloud and sprinted off to the bathroom. _She likes it when I look neat and tidy._

He quickly combed back his curls into some semblance of order and straightened his shirt, tucking it into his trousers loosely. When he was satisfied with his appearance he made his way back to his post by the window. He had watched approximately two hundred and thirty four snowflakes fall to the ground when a small woman and even smaller child came into view_. _The child was clutching onto her hand as they admired the snow fall carefully picking their way through the icy ground. Sherlock pressed his palm to the window in giddy excitement as they reached the front door. The woman looked up through her snow covered hood and waved at the detective in the window gesturing for the little child to do the same.

Sherlock simply could not – would not - wait any longer. He bounded effortlessly down the stairs and pulled open the door hurriedly just as the woman was opening it resulting in an accidental embrace as the woman fought to keep her balance.

_Molly walked a little way down the street before she spotted a black horse and carriage. She had a few pennies on her that she had saved up from her paltry wages so would just ask the driver how far she could get away from London – the further the better. Molly didn't think of anything else as she hastily climbed into the carriage clutching onto her small suitcase tightly. She would need to find lodgings and that would be hard considering she was a single woman. She would need to find a job too, there was always some rich aristocrat who needed a maid, right? Molly let a lone tear drop down her cheek as the driver asked her coarsely where she wanted to go._

_"Uhm…" she fumbled wiping at the tears that were now flowing freely down her face._

_"Baker Street, please and quickly" said a confident male voice from beside her._

_Molly turned around in her seat sharply, the air being knocked from her lungs. Sherlock Holmes simply smirked in her direction, "Well you wouldn't stay with me so I figured I'd run away with you."_

_Molly did not know who had initiated it but suddenly she found herself in a very compromising position in the back of a horse and carriage on her way to the rest of her life._

Sherlock huffed as the small woman barrelled into his arms. He clung onto her tightly not caring to waste another minute.

"I've missed you Molly" he mumbled into her hood.

"We've only been gone two days" she giggled, enjoying the odd antics of her husband.

"Two days too long" he countered kissing her soundly effectively stopping any witty retort she might add.

"Eugh Daddy stop!" piped up a squeaky voice from behind him.

"Ah there he is!" Sherlock exclaimed turning around and gathering his son into his arms.

He skipped up the stairs almost as cheerily as he had descended them with his son on his back.

Molly smiled at the sight before her committing it to memory so as to never ever forget it. She took off her snow spattered coat, collecting Timothy's abandoned outer garments as well, placed them on the hooks and then ascended the stairs to 221b.

Sherlock was busy spinning his son around and telling him about his latest case, "And then Daddy caught the bad robber, who was insanely stupid as he left a trail of expensive jewellery out in the snow that led me straight to his hiding place."

Little Timothy cheered as he was spun into the air again never tiring of hearing about his father's escapades.

"If you don't stop that he'll be sick. Uncle Mycroft spoiled him rotten."

Sherlock groaned at the mention of his brother, "Yes well he always had a sweet tooth."

"Daddy," Timothy shouted earning a shooshing from his mother, "Sorry. Daddy, do you know who comes tonight?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes but played along none-the-less, "No, I don't."

"St. Nicholas" the boy said proudly crossing his arms over his chest.

"Really?"

"Yes and he's going to leave presents for us and then later on tomorrow Mummy says we're going to have a big meal because it's Christmas!" Timothy exploded jumping around the living room like an uncoiled spring.

Sherlock was sent a warning glance by his wife who mouthed very clearly 'play along' to him.

"Yes that's all going to happen but it is a sleep away and I've heard that the magical overweight man in a suit does not come until you're asleep."

Timothy took one look at his mother who nodded in confirmation of his father's words. He quickly shot to his bedroom swapping his formal clothes for flannel pyjamas and making sure to get properly tucked in by his parents before promptly falling asleep dreaming of all the cake and presents to come.

Molly sighed and made her way back to the living room choosing to sit in her chair beside the fire. Sherlock joined her a second later sitting opposite her in his own armchair nervously twitching his wrist.

"He is very excitable isn't he?" he murmured admiring the way the light from the flames shadowed Molly's face.

"Well he is your son" she replied eliciting a low chuckle from the man.

"Molly."

"Yes?" She turned her face towards his marvelling at the way his iridescent eyes always managed to capture her attention no matter how many times she saw them. Molly would never tire of their colour.

"Do you remember what I said five years ago?"

"You said a lot of things five years ago."

"When you were going to leave," Molly hummed in agreement, "I said I felt _something _for you."

"I remember" she replied softly.

"Well I've spent these last two solitary days figuring out what that something was, or should I say is." Sherlock stood up from his chair and gently pulled on Molly's hand bringing her to stand in front of him.

"And?" she asked.

After a moment of hesitation Sherlock finally said what he had known to be true for five long years but had never had the courage to say, "I love you."

Molly smiled and cupped his cheek, "I know."

Sherlock gazed lovingly down at the woman who had captured his heart closing the distance between them slowly.

"Uh uh," Molly pulled back, "I don't see any mistletoe."

Sherlock smirked, "Look up."

Molly almost collapsed in a peal of laughter as she caught sight of a single sprig of mistletoe bound by a shiny red ribbon dangling from the ceiling.

It would seem as if there was one Christmas tradition that Sherlock was willing to indulge in.

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